


and we waited too long

by woodpaintedflesh



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: F/M, Forgive Me, and if i had to suffer then u all have to too, but much sadder i think, im sorry, sorry so sorry, this is an age of adeline thing, this is sin, this popped in my head and couldn't get out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6031089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodpaintedflesh/pseuds/woodpaintedflesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarissa Morgenstern is born in 1876 in the small town of Cumberland, Rhode Island to a seamstress and an engine operator. It's January 1893 when Clarissa Morgenstern dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we waited too long

**Author's Note:**

> title from life around here by james blake; lyrics from retrograde by james blake
> 
> fic summed up in 3 words: lmao KILL ME

 

_You’re on your own_

_In a world you’ve grown_

_Few more years to go_

_Don’t let the hurdle fall_

_So be the girl you loved_

_Be the girl you loved_

* * *

 

Clarissa Morgenstern is born in 1876 in the small town of Cumberland, Rhode Island to a seamstress and an engine operator. She is the brand new baby sister to a very over excited four year old boy with bright hair and big cheeks. Their parents work long hours in the city; their mother at the factory sewing clothes, and their father down by the station so the two children, although still very happy, are raised by a twelve year old nanny named Dorothea.

Dorothea is Clarissa’s first friend. Jonathan is old enough to play outside with his friends without any adult supervision now and Clarissa feels like she never gets to see him anymore. But Dorothea is there. Dorothea feeds her, bathes her, teaches her to read and write. Clarissa adores her. But one day Dorothea catches the flu. Unsurprisingly, she does not survive.

This is Clarissa’s first loss.

She mourns her greatly but grows and developes wonderfully, thanks to her friend and she will never forget her.

Clarissa turns out to be a bit of an oddball at school with her bright red hair and freckles splayed across stark white skin. She’s the only girl in her class who knows how to properly read. The children tease her endlessly and she doesn’t understand why.

“You are so smart,” Jocelyn coos when little Clarissa brings it up, “and you are so lovely, darling,” She kisses her daughter’s temple. “You will always be lovely. The children at school are scared of that. As am I.”

She feels stronger the next day at school.

Her beauty really does show when she turns seventeen. Deep green eyes contrast against her pale skin. Boys love terribly colorless skin, so she’s told. Suitors show up at her door. She turns every one of them down, to the dismay of both of her parents. They had expected her to be out of the house and married with children when she was 15.

But still she remains unmarried.

It’s January 1893 when Clarissa Morgenstern dies.

Her friend from school, Gretel, invites Clarissa to join her family in the holiday festivity of sleigh riding. The weather conditions are frightening, which ironically, was perfect for sleighing. Clarissa has a most enjoyable time with Gretel and her family that night. But complications begin as they approach the Lonsdale crossing on the Worcester division of the Consolidated Road. A high stone wall blocks their view of a freight engine coming perpendicular them at 18 miles an hour. Before anyone can react, before the sleighers realize their fate, before the engineer can reverse the engine, the train and the sleigh collide. The force of it flings all occupants in all directions. Clarissa flies forward onto the tracks, and is killed instantly.

The last thing she thinks is of the cold bite of the wind cutting her cheeks.

The scene of the wreck is awful. The dead in grotesque frozen positions in snowbanks, the injured writhe on the cold ground. Their cries are choked and heartbreaking.

And in one moment, one beat, a spark of electricity runs through the veins of the tracks of the railroad, starting up Clarissa’s heart. Her body convulses and suddenly she can feel the numbing cold of the snow on her face, in between her fingers. Her head is split open and she is sticky with blood. She might pass out but she is alive, at least.

But she loses her dear friend Gretel in the collision. This is the second loss.

Doctors tell her she is a miracle. She should not have lived. She sometimes wishes she hadn’t.

When she is nineteen years old, her parents die at the old age of forty-two and forty-three in their sleep. She is still grieving when she meets Alaric Graymark and falls in love. They’re married within three months of courting. He makes her laugh and he satisfies her needs but it’s nothing like a marriage she ever expected. But she’s happy enough for now.

Her husband owns a newspaper company in New Jersey. She goes to live with him down there, a huge leap from her small rural town of Cumberland. Alaric gives her a nice family sized home, the biggest one she has ever seen and it’s even got a telephone and a few horses. He’ll have to teach her to ride one day, she insists. Alaric is possibly the friendliest person she has ever known. He gives her simple gifts every day after coming home from work: flowers, something from the bakery shop down the street, and if it’s a really good day, some jewelery. She feels almost guilty to be this happy with her life.

But it all comes crashing down when she gets a letter from an old neighbor in Cumberland. Her brother was in an automobile accident involving two other cars. They would not have even bothered writing unless he was dead.

“It should have been _me_ ,” she cries to her husband. Alaric stays stoic and quiet, only strokes her hair and comforts her. Heavy guilt claws at her chest when she realizes that her husband doesn’t even know she miraculously survived a fatal freight engine accident. And now her brother was taken from a small automobile pileup.

Now that her entire family is gone, Clarissa wishes she had given her mother some children knows it is only a matter of time before she dies too. She deserves a little more love anyway, she tells herself, after all the trauma she has been through. But she—can’t. She and Alaric try and try and try but... nothing. They at first think Alaric is infertile, until Clarissa starts to show. And then she starts to bleed. This happens three more times. The doctors declare her unable to carry a child. She blames the accident and cries for all the children she’s lost.

They move to London for a fresh start. Rhode Island had too many scars and New Jersey left her feeling empty after the failed pregnancies.

They have enough money saved up that they can afford a flat in the heart of the city. Clarissa is in love.

She’s nearing thirty-five when she notices. All of her friends from the book club down the street have laugh lines and crinkled foreheads and graying hair. Her skin is as smooth as it was when she was seventeen and her hair still holds a bright orange hue. She claws at it one night, desperate to find a strand of white but comes up empty.

Her dear friend Sophie Collins finally notices Clarissa’s lack of age.

“My dear Clarissa,” she breathes. “What’s happened to you?”

“I’m not sure,” she admits quietly. “I am a little worried.”

Her friend falters, then gives a tight smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing. You have just got good looks from your dear mother, that’s all.”

Clarissa doesn’t smile. “Yes, I’m sure that’s all.”

It’s an odd thing to be the age she is and not ill with age. Life expectancy isn’t very high in this day and age and she still looks like a teenager. Soon there will be articles about her in the papers, she’s sure of it.

A year later, she and Alaric are invited to attend as passengers on a British passenger liner to New York. Clarissa is a little hesitant on the idea. The liner is headed toward America, where her secrets and past life lies and she’s not sure she’ll ever be ready to relive it. But her husband seems interested in attending, and she trusts him not to make any stupid decisions so she lets him go himself.

He gives her a big smile and a kiss and promises to see her in a few weeks. She reminds him it will take at least a month or two to get there and back but he assures her it will go by quickly. They take a train from London to Liverpool so she can see him off at the Southampton port. She stands against the railing next to a young dark haired woman; her blue eyes were rimmed with red from crying.

“Are you alright?” Clarissa asks politely.

The girl turns to her clutching a kerchief in her gloved hands. “Oh yes, thank you. My husband and his best friend are on the ship. It will be hard without them for the next few weeks.”

Clarissa tries to not to look shocked—she seems so young to be married—and smiles kindly. “My husband, too. He’s very excited.”

“I wanted to go,” the girl shrugs a shoulder, “but I get terribly sick on the sea. I came here in 1878 from America.”

_1878?_ That was nearly 35 years ago. “But you look so young,” Clarissa compliments. “Surely you can’t be that old!”

The girl’s eyes widen and her face pales. “I—”

“She has amazing skin care,” someone cuts in. Clarissa’s gaze shifts over to him. He’s wearing expensive clothing. It’s all very colorful and eccentric and... odd. “I’m Magnus Bane,” he holds a hand out to her. “This is Tessa Herondale.”

She shakes his hand. “Pleasure. Clarissa Graymark.”

Magnus smiles brightly. “Excellent. Anyone for tea?”

This is how Clarissa befriends Magnus Bane and Tessa Herondale. They chat over tea, catch a train back to London together and spend time with one another bonding over simple things like books and clothes and Clarissa learns that Tessa has two beautiful children (she feels a pang of sadness when she remembers all the children she’s lost) and it’s all very— _mundane_.

That is, until they wake up on the morning of April 15th and find out that the RMS Titanic has sunk with their husbands on it.

Not even his body washes up.

She cries harder than she ever has before. She doesn’t turn to her new friends for support. She doesn’t even show up at the funeral. She’s left with all of his money but she doesn’t know what to do with it. She stashes it away and she locks herself up in her flat for weeks.

Magnus shows up at her door. “You need to stop being so ridiculous. You aren’t alone in what you feel.”

She falls into his arms, crying. “I’ve lost so many people. Too many.”

He looks pained. “As have I, Clarissa. As have I.”

His eyes sweep around the apartment and he finally notices the boxes of her things. His eyebrows furrow. “Clarissa, are you—?”

“I’m moving. Back to the States. Everyone... everyone seems to die around me. My nanny, my dear friend Gretel,” she rambles on, “my brother however many years ago when I was nineteen. My... my husband. I need to be alone for a while.”

Magnus eyes her warily. “Clarissa, how old are you?”

Her stomach drops. “I—I’m...” She could trust Magnus, couldn’t she? “I was born in 1876,” she says at last, indignantly. His eyes widen but she moves on. “Now will you please excuse me? The train to the port leaves in an hour and I have more packing to do.”

“But—wait, Clarissa, I can—”

“Good day,” she says coldly and shuts the door behind him. She leans her head against the wood and takes deep, calming breaths before she starts to cry.

* * *

_I’ll wait, so show me why you’re strong_

_Ignore everybody else_

_We’re alone now_

_I’ll wait, so show me why you’re strong_

_Ignore everybody else_

_We’re alone now_

* * *

 

She moves to a different city on a different continent. They land in Florida after a month of sailing, and Clarissa is so tired she figures Florida is good as any other place to settle.

She begins working in the domestic service as a cooker and nanny for wealthy families. She has plenty of money herself and she can more than afford a nice big empty house, but she’s lonely. She needs some company no matter how dangerous she knows it is.

One day on her way home after a long day at work, her car breaks down in the middle of the busiest road in town. The police come out to help her eventually and they are very understanding of the situation and friendly which is why she’s stumped when they ask to see some sort of identification to file to report.

That means handing over her birth certificate.

“I’m not... sure I brought it with me, officer,” she says, feigning innocence. “I was in quite the rush this morning.”

The officer raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Then maybe you can share an address,” he doesn’t pose it as a question. “I’ll send someone out first thing tomorrow morning.”

She nods eagerly. “Oh yes, that sounds quite alright, sir. Thank you.”

Clarissa knows she got off easy. She knows it’s not likely to happen again.

That’s why when the officer visits her the next morning, there is no sign of Clarissa Morgenstern. The house is left unlocked and vacant. There’s a citywide search for her, but she’s long gone.

Clarissa lives past 50. In these times, it’s nearly unheard of. A miracle. When she leaves Florida, she changes her name with the help of a skeevy guy named Silas Layne. His office sits on the outskirts of town and is disguised as a bakery called United Cakes of America. She huffs a laugh at the name. He claims it’s owned by his mother, but when she enters, she’s nowhere to be seen. No one is, in fact. But when the bell chimes above her head as she opens the door, a young man comes scurrying out the back room.

“Uh... Clarissa, right?” He asks, and she nods warily. This can’t be Silas Layne; this boy can’t be older than sixteen.

But she follows him into the back room anyway; she’s desperate and despite his lack of age, seems to know what he’s doing, which is forging birth certificates. His “office” is very small and is cluttered with... _things_ . Mounds of security paper, three typewriters, bottles of ink, _spilled_ bottles of ink.

He hands her the new birth certificate, identical to her last; the only difference being her name, parents and age—a big difference. “So... why 20? Why not an older age?”

She tucks the delicate piece of paper safely in her purse. “How old do I look, Mr. Layne?”

He looks her up and down. She tries not to show her discomfort. Not that she minds when someone cute shows some interest in her, but she has a problem when that someone is probably thirty years younger than she is. But she quietly appreciates his shaggy brown hair and too-big eyeglasses. “Good point,” Silas says at last.

She hands him the cash she owes him. “Thank you, again. It... means a lot.”

Silas takes the money and tosses it in his desk. He laughs humorlessly, which sounds terrible coming from a boy so young. “Yeah, well. I’m good at running, so I might as well help others too.” He sounds wrecked and she hates it.

She gives him a tight smile. “This isn’t your first rodeo, is it?”

He shakes his head, a little sad. “No, but you already knew that,” he pauses, studying her, “It’s yours, though.” She stiffens, but Silas just shrugs it off. “Well. If you’re still running in ten years—you know where to find me.”

She smiles for real this time, considering. She could possibly trust this Silas Layne. “See you, Silas,” she heads to the door of the bakery.

He follows her, smiling broadly. “Aha! First name basis—maybe I’ll see you earlier than ten years.”

She laughs. “Maybe when you’re a little older.”

Silas glares down at his body like it’s betrayed him. He sighs and sags against the doorway. “Good day, lady.”

She grins, “Good day, Silas.”

That day she becomes Claire Morley, because she’s not quite ready to let go of Clarissa Morgenstern.

But at least there’s a little more bounce to her step.

After that, she stays away from people. Stays away from kids and avoids jobs that require her to work with others much, preferring to do odd jobs and discovering herself. She finds that she is particularly good at painting and she picks up the guitar and busks on the corners of streets in town. The closest she’s gotten to people is working at the soup kitchen for the homeless and even then she has to tear herself away. She’s sad and she’s lonely, but she doesn’t know what else to do.

Ten years pass by quietly. Claire has been so alone for all this time, she’s not sure if it’s a wise idea to go looking for Silas Layne. Another two years pass when she does.

She packs up and leaves her small Texan town. This time no one stops her.

Claire stops in front of the bakery. She frowns up at the new name: The Cakesmith.

She has a sinking feeling that Silas has packed up and left, but enters the shop anyway. The same bell chimes above her head.

A boy is taking inventory behind the counter of sugary goods. He twists his head at the sound of the bell. He certainly _looks_ like Silas; the only difference is his short trimmed hair and square glasses. He squints at her, assessing her. Then he grins widely and then she _knows_ —it’s Silas.

“Claire!” He spreads his arms wide. “You’re a little late—it’s been 12 years.”

She’s stuck in place, stunned. “You’re... you look—”

“The same?” He finishes for her. His broad smile is gone, replaced with a small, almost shy one. “So do you.”

“Yeah,” she whispers. Her throat closes up; she doesn’t know what she is but. Maybe he does. Maybe he can help.

He sits her down with a muffin and explains everything. He was born in the late 1700s as Simon Lewis after his mother fled to America when her family banished her after finding her pregnant out of wedlock. When he was sixteen, he was ambushed by some of the older kids because he was the only Jew in the neighborhood. Their harassment was taken too far when the knife was brought out. Simon was killed, and in panic, the boys left his body in the park late in the night. He only remembers waking up during a storm with a headache, bloody clothes, and a Lichtenberg figure along his spine. Then he found out he couldn’t age. His mother was terrified of him, died of a heart attack. He lived on the streets until he figured out what to do. He would move and change his name every ten years. It was easier then, forging birth certificates.

“And now I go by Sam Lennon,” he finishes.

“Simon Lewis,” she breathes, a small smile playing on her lips. She shakes her head a little. “Clarissa Graymark. Or, Morgenstern. Or, Morley.”

Simon looks amused. “Which was your first?”

“Morgenstern.”

He twists his mouth, “Clarissa Morgenstern. Clarissa is such a mouthful. How do you feel about Clary?”

She grins, wide. “Not as classy, but I’ll take it.”

They keep their friendship a secret for the sake of their safety. They meet only once every ten years to change Clary’s identity but otherwise keep in touch through phone calls and letters. She becomes an abundance of different people leading different lives. Clove Molloy, who, during the Great Depression, lived in a rough neighborhood; she knew she had the money Alaric had left her but it didn’t _feel_ right using it. Cleo Morgan, an eccentric young woman who lived in a seaside villa on the west coast; she works as a small town designer, until she gets too much attention and is forced to flee. Clementine Mortimer who moves to the suburbs to be a landscape gardener until her neighbors have kids, making her feel lonelier than ever. Chloe Moss, who lives in an architect designed home and works as a literary agent; she leaves when one of her clients became a well-known author.

She hates it, most of the time. But it’s her life. This is how it’s supposed to be.

x

It’s 1969 and NASA is about to launch Apollo 11 and send men to the moon, so she travels down to Florida to see it because— _space travel_ and _moon landings_ . Men _on the moon_. It’s awesome. It’s also very crowded, as expected, but she arrives a few days early and camps out in her volkswagen beetle to get a good viewing spot. She would stay with Simon if he hadn’t moved a few states over when he fell in love.

She meshes in with the throng of people along the marsh and stares up at Apollo 11 with the other onlookers. There is a certain kind of silence among the crowd: mesmerization, wonder, awe, as the countdown to launch begins.

A warm breeze passes through the mass as the rocket launches off the ground and the mob of people cheer and cry and hug. Clary laughs delightedly. What a sight to see.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” A voice to her left says. “How far technology has come.”

Despite the roar of the blast off, the clamor of the people around her, all Clary can hear is how fast her heart beats in her chest. She knows that voice.

She looks up, after a beat. “Magnus Bane.”

He smiles broadly. “Clarissa Graymark.”

“It’s um,” her voice is barely above a whisper “Clarke now. I go by Clarke Morrison.”

He nods slowly, understanding. “You went with that route, huh?”

“What route?”

“Running,” he simply says, “and hiding.”

“I...” she falters.

Magnus looks back up at Apollo and Clary follows his gaze. The rocket looks so tiny now, from here. She’s not sure she wants to know what it’s like up there, in that tiny cramped capsule with the chance of never returning, forever drifting away in space and isolation. She knows only a little of what that’s like but she’s not interested in exploring it further.

She looks back to her old friend to find him already watching her. “Let’s take a walk,” he says.

She lets him loop his arm through hers and guide her through the crowd. She’s not surprised when he brings her to a vibrantly colored volkswagen bus. “Gaudy,” she comments.

He flashes her a grin and opens the door for her. “That’s me.”

The inside had been remade to look like a mobile home. It’s charming and cozy, Clary decides. She settles down at the table as Magnus makes them tea.

He slides into the seat across from her, handing over a mug that says I LOVE ME. She takes a sip; it’s sweet.

She sets her cup down. “You knew.” She thrums her fingers along her mug. “In 1912, when I was leaving.”

“Yeah,” Magnus swallows. “I could have helped you. Me and... I could have helped you,” he repeats. “As you can see, I’m going through the same thing you are,” he says drily.

“Well,” she says, voice strange, “as _you_ can see, I’ve got it all figured out.”

“Yes. How strange, making a life for yourself. Without the assistance of anyone else.”

“How strange it is to be anything at all,” she retorts, and swallows hard. “You did so too, am I wrong?”

Magnus’s jaw slams shut and he looks away.

Clary’s heart thunders in her chest. “There are more,” she accuses.

He takes a long sip of his tea. “There were others,” he confirms, “and there’s... The others were close friends of mine. Ragnor Fell and Catarina Loss. They were caught. I’m not sure by who, no one is. But I haven’t seen them since they went missing.”

Clary’s breath is stuck in her throat. “And you have _no_ idea who could have taken them?”

Magnus inhales deeply. “My closest guess would be the DoD. They could have been watching them for years before making a move. Ragnor and Cat never bothered to leave their cities or change their names.” He sighs, resigned and mumbles sadly, “Those idiots were bound to get caught at one point.”

Clary was speechless. “I’m.. I’m sorry, Magnus. I don’t even know what to say.”

He tries for a smile. “What you’re doing is good, Clarke.”

“You can call me Clary. There’s um,” she stutters, “someone else. For me, too. He was this— _kid_. He looked a little like me, in that way,” she laughs, “and he helped me when I got back. He changed my name for me, told me to come back in ten years if I needed it again. When I returned, he was still the same kid from ten years before. He confessed, told me what happened to him to make him that way.”

“So something made him that way, he thinks.”

“You don’t?” Clary starts, “You think we were all born this way?”

“Absolutely not,” Magnus says brightly. “Every immortal I have encountered claims they have died and come back.” His unique amber eyes glittered. “When I was ten, my stepfather drowned and killed me. It was monsoon season though, and it was a particularly stormy day. Lots of lightning. One struck the water. Revived me, killed him.”

_How horrible,_ Clary thinks. She doesn’t say it aloud because she’s sure Magnus isn’t looking for sympathy; she has a feeling he never will. She thinks back to a point of her long life where she could have been struck by lightning. Nothing comes up. But—electricity must work too. “The sleigh accident,” she says aloud. “I was killed in a sleighing accident.”

“Sleigh? You told me you were born in 1876, surely there were other means of transportation then.”

Clary waves a hand at him impatiently. “Yes, but when I was eighteen, a friend invited me to join her and her family for a sleigh ride pulled by some horses. We were crossing the tracks when the train hit. I... I don’t remember much. The impact, and then I blacked out. Or at least that’s what it felt like. Now it all makes sense. I—I _died_.”

“But how did you come back?”

Clary thinks for a moment, remembering. “I woke up on the tracks, if I remember correctly. Electricity must have been doing its job.”

“And now here you are,” a small smile plays on his lips.

“Here I am,” the corners of her mouth twitch. “I’ve lived good lives, Magnus. Each have only lasted about ten years but. I did some good, even if I was a little lonely. I had Simon. If you ever feel guilty for... for my leaving that day, don’t. That was on me.”

His cheek trembles. “But I should’ve pushed harder. I know what it’s like, to be scared and alone. I didn’t want anyone else to feel that way.”

She slides her hand across the small table and clasps his. “But you’re here now.”

“I am,” he grins. “And I’m never leaving again. I’m going to make your life a living hell.”

She laughs, bright and genuine, and the foreignness of it shocks her. She laughs again, just to work out the muscles. She’s missed it, laughing like this. “Bring it on.”

x

She calls Simon as soon as she can.

“Hello?” He answers on the first ring. No matter where the call could be coming from, he always picks up in case it’s Clary.

“Hi, Simon,” she smiles at his voice.

“You went down to see it, right?” The excitement is palpable in his voice.

“Yes,” she laughs, “But that’s not why I—”

“How big was the rocket, really? I don’t think the television did it justice.”

“Really big, but—”

“Could you feel the blast? Was it hot?”

Clary sighs, “ _Yes,_ but it’s Florida so it’s always hot, but Simon—”

“I wish I could’ve gone,” he sighs wistfully. “But I’ve got—”

“A family now,” she finishes gently. “You’ve got people now, Si.”

Clary can almost _hear_ him flush a bright red. “Well, _her_ family. We don’t... We’re not... I’m _going_ to propose, and _soon_ , but. Yeah. It’s kind of the best thing in my life right now.”

Her heart breaks for him. “What’s her name again?”

“Isabelle,” Clary hears his smile. “She’s beautiful. I wish you could meet her, Clare, but.”

“Yeah, I know.” She bites her lip, contemplating. “It’s dangerous, Simon. Falling in love, I mean. People like us aren’t allowed to love like that.”

“I know,” he whispers. “But—she just came out of nowhere. I can’t just... She’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“...Does she know?”

Simon exhales harshly. “No. But I want her to. I think she really loves me too. And I really want her to know.”

“Be careful, Simon,” Clary pleads. “I was... well, you know I was married once. I’m not sure it was the same kind of love you have for Isabelle but. He made me happy. He’s gone now without ever knowing my secret.”

“Yeah. I’m going to take it easy, Clary. Immortality isn’t exactly a conversation to have over dinner. Maybe I’ll leave subtle hints. Like maybe leaving little vampire dolls on the kitchen counter or on the bathroom sink.”

Clary huffs a laugh, “That’s... You’re ridiculous, Si. But—this isn’t why I called.”

“Right,” he says, sheepish. “I kept interrupting you.”

“Right,” she confirms with a smile. “Um. I ran into... an old friend.”

“Okay?”

“Uh, apparently. He’s one of us.”

There’s a loud clatter on the other end, causing Clary to pull the phone away from her ear. “Simon?”

“Dropped the fucking— _phone_ ,” his voice is muffled. “I’m sorry, _what_ ? One of _us_?”

“His name is Magnus Bane. I met him in 1912 in London, before I moved back to the States. I was a wreck, Simon, he tried to stop me from leaving. But—he asked me when I was born. In my anxiety, I told him the truth, and he said... he was trying to say something to me, but I shut him out. I think he _knew_ but I was too stubborn to listen,” she breathes in deeply. “Then I left, and met you.”

“And how do you know it was the same guy?”

She thinks of Magnus’ eccentric wardrobe. “Trust me,” she says drily, “if you met him, you would know. And he recognized me. At the Kennedy Space Center today.”

It’s silent on his end. “I don’t...” he falters, “I don’t even know what to say.”

“I know,” Clary says quietly. “It’s—crazy. And he said he knew others. But. They were... _taken._ They found them out. I’m not sure who—I think something about the Department of Defense, I’m not sure—but they took them. He hasn’t heard from her since. Presumed dead.”

“Damn...” he pauses. “The DoD? Isn’t that for—I don’t know, aliens, extraterrestrial life, and UFOs and blah blah blah?”

“More like anything that even poses as a threat to the United States government. But like I said, the DoD being involved seems a little farfetched. And anyway—Magnus implied that he knows more like us. I didn’t push it. If he wants to protect their identities, I’ll respect that. But... I think I know who he’s talking about.”

“Who?”

“Her name’s Tessa Herondale. I met her the same day I met Magnus.”

“Fuck,” he exhales harshly, “and you didn’t think to tell me this?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m like, a hundred years old, it must’ve slipped my mind.”

“You—you’re not even a hundred yet!” Simon argues, “And anyway, I’m older than you! I’m nearing two hundred, so shut up.”

“I just didn’t think it was anything important,” she grumbles. “Thinking of that time, of that year is just another horrible reminder that my husband died in the most tragic event in history.”

“Sorry,” Simon mumbles. “So. There are more of us. Possibly all over the world. Countless of others,” he pauses. When he speaks again, she can hear the smile in his voice. “We’re not alone.”

She leans against the phone booth, fingers tangling in the curly wire. “No,” she smiles, “we’re not alone anymore.”

x

Clary attends an art gallery opening in Boston in 1999 when she sees a familiar face.

She grips her wine glass; if she didn’t, she would drop it.

She walks up to a group of unsuspecting young adults with cocktails and long flowy gowns. “Tessa?” She whispers.

The young woman before her whips her head at the sound of Clary’s voice. When she meets her eyes, Tessa pales. “I’m sorry,” she says stiffly, “but I think you have the wrong person.” She glances at her acquaintances, gives a wan smile, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Clary watches her as she briskly leaves the gallery.

She manages to find a phone booth a few minutes’ walk from the exhibit. “Hey asshole,” she says brightly the second he picks up, “why didn’t you tell me that Tessa Herondale is still alive?”

“I wish you greeted me like this every day,” Magnus answers. “And it’s Tessa Carstairs now. Well. Unofficially—it’s supposed to be a secret. They do that thing where they change their name and move all the time like you and that rat guy.”

She rolls her eyes. “His name’s Simon. Now stop stalling. Tessa’s alive, is the point,” she lowers her voice, “and clearly immortal. And what’s this I hear about a _they_ ? Who is included in the _they_?”

Magnus sighs. “Come down to Chicago as soon as possible. They’ll be here.”

“Will they?”

“Yes,” he insists, exasperated. “I’ll make sure of it.”

It takes her a day and a half to find a flight down to Illinois to his place. Of course, his “place” is a penthouse in one of the skyrise buildings along Lake Shore Drive with a perfect view of the lake. She wouldn’t expect anything less rom Magnus.

He sits her down in his kitchen table and it’s two in the morning and Clary hates everything.

“I can’t _believe_ you didn’t _tell_ me—”

“They wanted safety over protection,” he snaps, “excuse me for trying to give that to them.”

She rubs her face with her hands, feeling guilty. “I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s kind of a big deal.”

“I know, I—” a single knock at the door interrupts him. “That’s them. Stay here.”

“Where am I supposed to go,” she grumbles, thrumming her fingers on the table suddenly jittery with nerves.

They walk into the kitchen, giving no time for Clary to properly prepare.

Because it really _truly_ _is—_ “Tessa,” she says, standing from her chair.

“Clarrissa.”

“It’s um. Clary, now,” she corrects automatically. Clarissa was her old life—her _first_ life. Her worst life.

“Clary then,” Tessa tries for a smile, but it’s wobbly. She tugs someone forward, a young man with small eyes and black hair. “This is James. He attended the Titanic with my—with Will. He survived,” she explains, a little too quickly. “It’s how he’s become... like us.”

No one seems to like the word _immortal_. It’s a scary concept, even for them.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says politely. To Tessa, she says, “I’m... I’m really glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.”

“Well,” Tessa begins to smile, “I’m here for a while.”

“I am too. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

Tessa laughs delightedly. “Where are you staying?”

Clary smiles wide. “Well I’ve got a room at the Drake Hotel for a few days but now I’m thinking I might cancel them and beg Magnus to let me stay here.”

Magnus mock glares at them, but he’s smiling too.

Tessa grabs her hand. “Then let’s make the best of our stay.”

x

She gets a phone call from an unknown number in 2002. She picks up.

“She’s dead, Clary,” Simon’s voice filters through. “Isabelle’s dead.”

“I’m coming,” she promises. “I’m coming, Simon. Where are you?”

He’s in Nevada, where he spent his time with Isabelle and she’s in Seattle so she takes the earliest flight down there.

They don’t go to the funeral.

They sit on a park bench near Isabelle’s house. Clary brings booze and they take turns drinking it out of the paper bag.

“I wasn’t even... with her, all this time,” Simon takes a swig. “I told her. Y’know, about the immortality and shit way back in the 70s.” He’ll be slurring soon but Clary lets him have this. This one moment of vulnerability. “She loved me, she said, like she’s loved no one else before. She figured we’d be together forever but. When I told her, she just—freaked. It would be _literally_ forever for me, not her. She cried, told me that _she_ didn’t want to do that to _me_ . Like she was the bad guy. Didn’t want me sad and heartbroken and in love with her when it wouldn’t be permanent because she would die someday and I would be alive. So she broke it off, said she wanted nothing to do with me. Jokes on her though,” he hiccups, “‘cause that was already the case the moment I set my eyes on her.” He laughs humorously. Clary’s throat has tightened and she squeezes his hand hard. “Isabelle was it for me. She left me but I didn’t leave her. Watched her grow older, get married to some other guy. Have kids. It’s all very creepy and bad... sounding, I know but. I loved her. Love. Love her. I wanted to be here in case something, I don’t know, _happened._

“But I wasn’t there,” he whispers, “when that asshole decided to have a few beers before driving.” He drops his head on Clary’s shoulder. “I wasn’t there.”

Tears trail down her cheeks but she doesn’t make a sound. She cards her hands through his curly hair. “Shh, Simon. It’s going to be okay.”

“And I’m really glad that dick is dead, too,” he admits.

She tugs him closer. “You don’t mean that, Si.”

He sniffs, almost angrily and it would be funny if it wasn’t so serious. “I... no, you’re right. I don’t.” He clutches her. “I’m a prick.”

“No, Simon. You’re not. You’re just lonely.” She smiles, a little sad. “But you have me, and Magnus and Tessa and Jem. Can you you believe that? Five of us, at least. You have four of us.”

“Sometimes,” Simon says raggedly. “Only sometimes though.”

“Only sometimes,” Clary agrees, stroking his hair. “But it’s enough. It’s gotta be.”

“It’s gotta be,” Simon mumbles back to her. “It’s gotta be.”

* * *

_Suddenly I’m hip_

_Is this the darkness of the dawn_

_And your friends are gone_

_And your friends won’t come_

_So show me where you fit_

_So show me where you fit_

* * *

 

Clary has lived most of her life in isolation with very minimal contact with Magnus and Simon and Tessa.

It’s supposedly the most romantic night of the year when she fucks up. She’s living in New York and she’s at some terrible musty bar because despite having _immortal_ friends, this holiday reminds her that she is still terribly lonely and sometimes she wishes she had stayed dead in that accident.

Morbid, but true.

And then she’s suddenly way too aware of her self-pity party so she goes outside to cool off. She feels the eyes of predators disguised as men on her back as she leaves. Their presence and the cold bite of the wind sobers her up pretty quickly, for which she’s thankful. If she’s followed, and worse comes to worst, she really can’t afford to be sluggish.

She’s also thankful for her intuition. Because the guys who had just been eyeballing her stalk out of the bar, and genuinely look surprised when they see her standing right outside of it. There’s only one other person with her outside who’s not associated with that group. He’s standing a few feet away from them, leaning against the brick of the bar, smoking a cigarette. His hood shields his face.

Clary really doesn’t have very many options here. She’s never had a car, so she can’t escape from them that way. She could stay at the bar, but. It’s Valentine’s Day. The owners might have wives and or husbands. Who knows how much longer it’ll be open til.

And she certainly can’t fight them. She’s taken her fair share of self defense and taekwondo classes during her many years on earth, but she’s still _tiny._ She’s almost positive the three of them are each 30 feet taller than she is. She feels—really stupid, to say the least. She has just become one of the biggest cliches in all of history, going to a bar alone only to get stalked in the long run. Stupid.

There’s movement behind her and suddenly a hand at her waist. Clary yelps in fear as she’s tugged back into someone.

“There you are,” he says with false excitement. She nearly whimpers when he places his lips on her ear, “Relax, and follow my lead, alright?” The man grabs her arm and curls it around his waist. “I was waiting for you. I have a surprise at home.”

“Oh,” she pinches his side, finally following along. “ _Oh_. Well, here I am!”

Clary internally winces. She was never the best at improv.

The other men quickly lose interest and stalk off, probably hoping to catch another unsuspecting victim. Her stomach churns at just the thought of it and she nearly runs after them but. She has other business to take care of.

She turns to the stranger and punches him right in the face. And again, just for good measure. “Ah, fuck—would you,” he grunts as he dodges another swing at him, “would you knock it off?”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” She growls. “You don’t just—come up to a girl and _do_ that! Especially at night!”

“Wow, sorry for saving you a night of unwanted harassment? Won’t happen again, ever. I swear.”

_Ah, fuck_ . She really needs to be more sensitive to people. This is probably why it’s a good thing she has almost no one in her life. Even after all the experiences she’s had on earth and being almost 150 years old, she’s still incredibly inept when it comes to talking to people. _Incredibly._

She inhales deeply. “You’re right. I’m sorry. And. Thank you, I guess.”

The guy winces, touching his tender cheek. “Ouch. Just—am I bleeding? Is that blood?”

Clary stuffs her cold fingers in her jacket pockets. She really does feel bad. “Jesus, I’m—really sorry. I have a first aid kit? In my car. It’s just right around the corner.”

“Lead the way.”

She rifles around through her glove department and then her trunk and then the middle console, but nothing. She could’ve sworn she put her first aid kit in here. She climbs out. “I must have left it at home. Christ, this is a disaster. I can—um, take you to a doctor? Is it... does it hurt really bad?” She rants. “I can take you to a hospital.”

He’s still holding a hand to his face. “Nah, I don’t think I need a doctor. It probably looks worse than it is. I probably won’t need stitches? I’m sure it’s fine. Maybe just a good cleaning and a bandaid will do.”

“Well, I’m a certified nurse. I can probably help you. With my first aid kit. At my house,” she winces. This is going terribly.

“You are?” He sounds surprised.

_Shit._ “Er—” she _was_ a certified nurse. Twenty years ago, but she isn’t about to tell him that. “Sort of? It’s complicated. But I promise I know what I’m doing.”

This is how Clary ends up driving a stranger back to her place on Valentine’s Day.

“This is a really nice car,” he comments, feeling the leather seats. They’re still stable and intact and she’s pretty proud of how well maintained the old car is. “Very vintage. It’s a—uh, 1986 model, right? That’s like, almost 30 years old. Where’d you find this thing?”

“Uh,” she stammers. She realized her car was old, just not _that_ old. “It’s a family heirloom, sort of,” she lies easily. “This old thing was my grandfather’s, then my dad’s. It was supposed to be my brother’s, I guess. But... Um, yeah. My family’s kind of made sure it was always fixed up when it breaks down. It’s like a tradition. It’s everybody’s first car.”

“Was it your brother’s first car?”

“No, ah—” she winces, “he’s... dead.”

“Fuck,” he drags a hand down his face. “Sorry. How long ago?”

“A really long time ago. Don’t worry about it,” she pauses. _Really_ long time ago. “Um, by the way. What’s your name?”

He laughs. “Shit, yeah. That’s important,” his eyes connect with hers. “I’m Jace.”

And—she’s so stupid. She’s going to look back on this moment and hate herself because she gets lost in his eyes; under the terribly lit street lights flickering over his face, she realizes he’s beautiful and she’s distracted for just a split second, but it’s enough to simply say, “Clary,” and she knows there’s no going back. She’s going to have to leave again, and _soon_.

“Clary,” he repeats. “I like it. Is it short for anything?”

“No,” she says shortly. “Not anymore.”

He glances at her, a little startled at her sudden coldness but she won’t look at him, so he drops it. “So why are you spending Valentine’s Day alone?” Jace asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Who’s there to spend it with?”

“Um, gee—I don’t know? Family, friends? Boyfriend, girlfriend—wife, husband?”

Clary snorts. _He’s been dead_ _for 103 years_. “I’m not really interested in being in a polygamous relationship.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“There’s,” she sighs, “there’s really no one.”

He goes quiet after that because really—what do you say to that? She didn’t give him many options. They complete the drive to her apartment in silence.

Jace steps out of the mercedes and takes a long look at the building she lives in, giving a low whistle. It’s nicer than anything she’s ever lived in. She decided it was a time where it wasn’t weird taking her dead husband’s money. Combined with all the money she’s managed to make over the years and his, she was able to get an apartment with a nice view in the heart of the city. He gave it to her, so why _not_ use it for a little luxury?

“I’m pretty sure this is how all horror stories start. You seem nice, take me back to your apartment. We sleep together and when I’m passed out, you drain my blood and drink it using a soup ladle.”

“What,” she says, because. What.

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “I may or may not have gotten in too deep on Youtube one night and watched a bunch of documentaries on serial killers and psychopaths.”

“Mm,” she hums. “Sounds like something only a psychopath researching how _not_ to get caught as a psychopath would say. Are you sure I’m playing the killer tonight? Because it sounds like you’ve got the part down.”

“Okay,” he laughs. “fair enough. I’ll give you that much.”

Clary likes his laugh.

She clears her throat, suddenly hyperaware of her stupid small crush.

She turns her key into the lock. “I’m warning you now, the apartment is kind of—not in good shape. Also I have two cats. I hope you’re not allergic.”

And Jace comes to find that—she’s right. Her apartment is a wreck. Old paintings and polaroid pictures—who even has one of those these days?—and digital photos that look like were printed out at Walgreens litter the walls in the first hallway. Clary stops and swerves to the right so suddenly Jace is thrown off, but he follows her anyway. He doesn’t get the chance to look at the pictures. She doesn’t let him.

Old film rolls and feather pens and thick, ancient books with mini padlocks are scattered across the next room—the living room, he realizes. An old trunk sits against a wall, a padlock also attached to it and— _god, who is this girl?_ On the couch sits an elegant, yet scruffy cat with eyes so blue Jace wonders if they’re real or not. Its grey and long, with scraggly, curly hair, something Jace has never seen on a cat before. Curled up on its back is a Siamese kitten, asleep.

“The bathrooms this way,” Clary says absentmindedly. When she notices him staring at the cats, she says, “The big one’s Hedwig. My favorite, for obvious reasons. She was a rescue. A malnourished alleycat sitting in the dumpster behind this building. She had mange and fleas. She’d just given birth, but none of the babies made it. I couldn’t just leave her,” she says almost sheepishly.

“And the smaller one?”

“The devil itself, obviously. I thought Hedwig could use a friend, but this one is the most evil fucker I’ve ever met. But I wouldn’t ever take her back. I named her Kylo Ren.”

Jace laughs. “She’s that bad, huh?”

Clary smiles. “The worst. C’mon.”

He was so distracted by the unique apartment, he nearly forgot about the throbbing in his cheek.

“Sit,” she all but shoves him onto the toilet seat. She pulls the first aid kit out of the medicine cabinet and gets to work repairing his face. A crease forms between her brows and he wants to smooth it out with his thumb which is _absurd_ considering he met her today when she punched him in the face.

He clears his head; he shouldn’t be thinking about that. “When did you learn how to do this stuff?”

She bites her lip in concentration. “Mm... a few years ago.”

“You look so young, though. How old _are_ you,” he teases lightly.

Clary stiffens. It was only a second of tenseness, but he felt it. She gives him a wry smile, “Older than you.”

He shakes his head. There’s no way. “I’m 24. You make it sound like you’re so ancient.”

“Stop moving,” she chastises. “Who knows,” she shrugs. “I could be ancient. I could be a 140 year old witch or a thousand year old vampire.”

“This is true,” he admits. “How will you prove your true age?”

She smirks. “You’re not ready.”

That was—vague. But Jace guesses that’s what she was going for. He likes her humor. Hedwig stalks into the tiny bathroom and climbs up Clary’s leg, perching herself on her shoulder, and watches. Kylo Ren follows shortly after. She crawls between Clary’s feet and hops onto Jace’s lap. Her claws dig into his leg to get a grip but she makes up for it by curling up against him. He strokes her fur.

Clary steps away from him, clearly disgusted. “Unbelieveable. Everytime I try to touch her, she nearly cuts my hand off.”

“Ah,” Jace smirks, “the Skywalker legacy.”

Clary narrows her eyes, mouth falling open. “Did you just—”

“Yes,” he says, smug. “Yes I did. You clearly seem to be a fan of Star Wars,” he adds. “Obviously it’s a strong enough route for me to flirt with you.”

“Flirt?” She says, startled. “You’re flirting with me?”

“Was it not obvious?”

“Why would you want to flirt with _me_? You’ve met me, right? I punched you in the face 20 minutes ago.”

“I seem to recall that, yeah. It certainly was a—uh, _powerful_ first impression.”

Sarcasm was Clary’s favorite form of flattery. This is ridiculous. She is a 140 year old getting flustered by a 24 year old _boy_ . She watched the original _Star Wars_ in theatres when it came out. He’s practically a child!

But she’s _tired_ of running. She wants to _live_ a little. “Yes,” she says.

“What?”

Clary flushes a little. “Well, if you’re asking me out on a date, the answer is yes.”

His lips curl up in a slow smile.

Their first date is to see _The Force Awakens_ in the theatre. It’s a safe environment and an opportunity to get a good feel of one another. And obviously—Star Wars. And although Clary has seen it three times before, she still cries. He makes fun of her a little, just to test the waters, and when she doesn’t punch him in the face, he takes that as a good sign. They discuss their theories on who they think Rey really is on their way home.

“She’s definitely Luke’s daughter,” Jace says.

“No way,” Clary counters. “Who would be her mother? She’s definitely Han’s daughter.”

“Han never mentioned ever having a daughter.”

“Maybe to protect her identity. Rey and Leia even _hugged_ after first meeting each other,” she retaliates. “ _That_ doesn’t seem a little suspicious to you?”

“Okay, maybe a little. And she _does_ have Han’s piloting skills,” he admits. “But she’s the new main protagonist, like Luke was. And BB8 is the main droid,” he pauses, for effect. “And the vision she had at the place Luke supposedly spent most of his years, _and_ what Maz said about someone waiting for her—”

“Okay, okay,” Clary laughs. “So let’s say she’s either Luke or Han’s daughter. Why leave her on Jakku? And why the name Rey? That’s likely not her real name. In her ‘survival guide’ she wrote that the helmet she keeps around belonged to a pilot named Desmit Raeh. Then she  goes on to talk about herself as if Rey isn’t her real name.”

“Well, we agree on one thing: she was probably left on Jakku for her own protection,” Jace says seriously, and Clary cannot believe for one second that she’s actually having this conversation with a cute guy. “But I think maybe Luke sensed something inside Ben that he didn’t like. Gave off a Darth Vader vibe, y’know? So Luke took Rey to Jakku when she was young and attempted to erase any memory she had, even of him and her name. And she was forced to believe her family would come back for her one day.”

Clary’s head falls back onto the leather seat. She lets out a long sigh. “This has gotten horrendously distressing. Shall we get ice cream?”

“It’s February in New York City. It’s below zero. I don’t think any ice cream parlors are open. But I have a tub of ice cream back at my place?”

She smiles at his nervousness. “Already trying to take me back to your apartment?” He ducks his head and Clary takes the opportunity to swoop in and kiss his cheek. “That sounds—really good actually. Maybe we can Netflix and relax.”

“It’s Netflix and _chill_ ,” he snickers, but his cheeks and the tips of his ears are red. “And I’m not sure you know what that actually means.”

“Darn,” she grins. “I’m really trying to be young and hip.”

Jace smiles absentmindedly as he pulls up to his apartment building. “You know, I’ve noticed a quirk about you already.”

“Oh no, I hope it isn’t embarrassing,” she says fondly. “What is it?”

“At times you get this—I don’t know— _accent_ , for lack of better words. Not like. Not like a Boston accent or Chicago accent or even New York. But an _old_ accent.”

She’s been trying so hard, too. She wasn’t lying about that. But sometimes her tongue just _slips_. Old habits die hard.

“An old accent,” Clary croaks.

“Yeah,” he says, contemplative and leads her upstairs. “Like you’re thousands of years old. It’s cute.”

“Cute,” she repeats and swallows hard. “Well, that’s good. Because I might just get super offended and use my ancient powers on you.”

He unlocks his door and throws her a look over his shoulder. “You still never told me your age, you know.”

Clary shrugs off her coat and he takes it from her, hanging it in his hallway closet. “I’m as old as you want me to be.”

Jace takes her into the kitchen. “Why are you always so vague? Are you just using me for sex? Are you secretly a 67 year old woman in a 22 year old’s body? Will you get close to me and end up killing me and my entire family?”

Clary knows he’s teasing, but her heart still lurches, because there’s no mistaking the hurt in his voice. She cradles his hand in hers and pulls him to her. “Because I get nervous are you,” she says honestly. “I have truly never felt this way about anyone before.”

He cups her face with his free hand. “There it is again,” he says quietly, almost absentmindedly. He leans in, his feet barricading hers, chests flushed, foreheads touching. “You don’t have to be nervous. I’m not going to hurt you.”

_Yes you are_ , she says to herself. _I’m going to love you, and be forced to leave you._ But instead of saying that, she pulls his face down to hers, because she wants this. She wants this for at least one night. His mouth is hard and soft on hers, an interesting contradiction, insistent but gentle. He crowds her up against the counter, placing both hands on either side of her body, caging her in. Her hand coils around the nape of his neck, clenching the little curls resting there.

He leans away, but only just barely. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I met you.”

She smiles against his mouth. “We’ve only known each other for two weeks.”

“And I’ve been waiting a week to kiss you,” so he does again, just because he can. He nuzzles her cheek. “That first punch—and I was gone.”

She laughs delightedly. “Wow, I was that good, huh? I must have been depriving you of my punches, then. I should probably do it more often.”

He kisses the corners of her mouth. “As often as you like.”

Jace’s arms slide up her sides and he kisses her like he doesn’t have breath and she’s the only oxygen tank left in the world. Her shirt is off in seconds and his hands are rough and quick and skilled when they find their way under her bra and god—it’s been so long since she’s had any of this. Way too long.

She pulls away to gasp for air, but he doesn’t stop. “As much as I love your kitchen, I don’t think there’s any reason to have sex on the counter when you have a perfectly good bed.” He continues a trail down her neck and shoulder.

He bite the juncture between her neck and shoulder. “You’re right,” he says roughly and tugs her after him.

Clary manages to get his shirt off too before they reach his bedroom. He pushes her onto his bed and kisses her, _hard_. Jace looks down at her, like he can’t quite believe she’s here and if she’s being honest with herself, neither is she. She truly believed no one would ever look at her the way Jace is. With so much adoration. She tugs him down and kisses him again because it’s all too much to take in. This time the kiss is slower, softer, but the best she’s ever had.

When the majority of their clothes are off, his hand travels down to tease her, and she bites her arm to keep from moaning too loudly. He has perfect fingers.

“Do you want me to—”

“Just fuck me,” Clary growls.

Jace chokes out a laugh. “Yes ma’am,” and reaches over to grab a condom.

She nearly bites through her lip when he finally slides into her. It’s been so long since she’s had this, and it feels so good.

He drops his head against her shoulder, taking a minute for both of them to adjust, and then he thrusts, hard and fast and this is exactly what she needs, she realizes. He sucks marks into one of her breasts, hand groping the other. He nips her jaw, kisses her roughly, a little desperate, and he moves his hand down again, working her relentlessly.

It’s one hell of an orgasm.

He groans into her neck, following her shortly. He stays there for another moment or two, still inside her, and Clary feels warm and content and satisfied.

He kisses her again, softer, and pulls back with a goofy smile. “Hi.”

She laughs. “Hi,” and cards her hands through his sweaty curls.

He noses at her cheek. “That was awesome.” He gets up to discard the condom.

“Well, you’re welcome I guess,” she says, but the smile is still on her face. He comes back into bed and pulls her to him, cuddling her.

They lay there for hours, just listening to each other’s heartbeats. Clary’s head rests on his chest. “I’m already too deep into this,” she says so quietly she’s sure he doesn’t hear.

But of course he does. His arms tighten around her. “And what’s so wrong about that,” his lips brush her temple.

She sits up in his arms. “There’s something that you should... I’m—I’m not... _normal,_ Jace.”

His smile is warm, gentle. “I don’t think anyone’s normal, Clary.”

“No, but—” she makes a frustrated noise. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this. It’s going to sound _completely_ insane, so insane that I might have well as been secretly a murderer who managed to seduce and kill you.”

He tugs on a curl. “I’ve heard some crazy shit. Try me.”

Clary breathes in deeply. She’s going to do this. And so she starts from the very beginning. She was born in 1876 in Cumberland Rhode Island. She died in 1893 and was brought back to life. She didn’t die when she thought she would: a few years after her husband, peacefully in her sleep. She continued to live, for years and years beyond that, beyond anything she ever thought possible. She tells him of Dorothy and Gretel, her brother and of Alaric. She tells him about Clove, Cleo, Clementine, Chloe, and Clarke and the others. She tells him of how lonely she has been, straying away from physical contact, keeping minimal human interaction, in general. It’s been horrible, generally.

He’s quiet for too long when she finishes. She can hear her heart beat loudly in the silent room and she can’t stand it.

“You’re not running.”

“Am I supposed to?” He sits up, leaning on an elbow. “Should I start now?”

She hugs him close. “No, you should never.”

He runs a hand down her hair, trailing it down her bare back. “Has someone run before?”

“No,” she looks up at him. “I haven’t told anyone who matters.”

Jace’s eyes seem to darken. “And I matter?”

Her answer is to kiss him again. “You matter,” she whispers. “I know it hasn’t been long, but you already matter so much.”

He returns the kiss so softly, she’s afraid she’s scared him off. “You want to know why I’m not running away,” he tugs her into his side and places his head on top of hers. “My foster mom’s aunt. Her name was Isabelle—she was the best person in the world,” he says fondly. “She always used to tell us how she fell in love with someone who could never age. They were just tales, my foster mother would say. But I always believed, just a little, that maybe it wasn’t impossible. That the world is still evolving.” He strokes her hair. “Isabelle would show us pictures of the guy. He was young, had big glasses. But he looked so happy and alive with her. It didn’t really matter how old he really was, as long as he made her happy. And he did, but one day she decided had to leave him. She never saw him again.”

Clary’s throat is tight with tears. “Simon,” she whimpers. She buries her face in his chest. “Isabelle Lightwood.”

His hand stops. “You knew her?”

Jace wipes her tears as she sits up. “No, not personally. But Simon Lewis told me all about her. I heard she was beautiful,” she pauses. “I... I’m sorry for your loss.”

He shakes his head, clearly dumbfounded. “It’s fine but. Did I hear you say you _knew_ my great aunt and this— _guy_?”

Clary giggles, feeling lightheaded. This is all so surreal. “Simon’s my best friend.” She stands up and gets dressed. Jace shamelessly watches. “C’mon, I have to show you something.”

She brings him back to her apartment and this time he gets a good look at the hallway of— _stuff._ And then he understands why she avoided it the first time he was at her place. The place is littered with _century_ old knickknacks. Gold plated picture frames with intricate carvings. More old trunks with big, heavy, rusted-over locks. Old parchment, a feather pens and ink. A _typewriter_ sits on the corner of a trunk next to a _telegraph_ . Photos of her and people she’s met over the years ranging from polaroids to glossed over printed photos and digital picture frames hang on the walls. Jace notices the quality of the photos and the hairstyles and clothes. In the older pictures, her hair is mostly in an updo and her smile is smaller, more reserved. _She’s always been cute, then._ And then he thinks about how crazy this all is. He believes her, he’s forced to, after seeing all of the stuff lying around her house and the way she talks sometimes. But it’s still so surreal.

Clary smiles at him. “If you like those, come take a look at this.” She opened a trunk and pulled out of box of faded, yellow pictures. They were so worn out, he could barely make out what exactly what it was a picture of. But Clary pointed at the outlines of herself and her family. “These were the worst pictures to take. I was 12 in this one. We had to sit still for the longest time and I remember always being so impatient. I’m not sure you can tell,” she points to herself, “but that’s the reason we look like corpses,” she laughs. “If we moved or even smiled a little bit, the picture was ruined.”

She sighs, running a finger down the photo. “I miss them. So much. I haven’t had a real family in so long.”

Jace clears his throat. “Not even Simon?”

She smiles briefly. “Simon is my best friend. He’s probably the closest family I have, and I’m only allowed to talk to him a few times every few years. We have a meeting point, where we see each other once every ten years and catch up. It’s nice, but. It’s not enough.”

Jace swallows thickly. “How can I help?”

She stares at him, seemingly speechless. “I’m not sure you can.”

He leans over, kisses her softly. “You deserve happiness. I can give that to you. Even if it’s not forever.”

She has to smile at that because of course he would say that. “You are very smug, aren’t you? You think your presence is so strong that I will remember you forever.”

He noses into her cheek. “You will,” he insists.

She brings him back to her mouth. She will.

She gets up in the middle of the night and pulls some clothes on. They’d had sex in the shower and fell into bed, ready to knock out, and the sheets were still a little damp. She smiles at Jace, tangled up in her sheets. She shuffles back into her hallway of— _stuff_ and pulls out another box. Inside were things Simon had sent her throughout the years. She sifts through it until she finds it. A photo of Isabelle Lightwood and Simon Lewis, 1974.

Clary sees how elated Isabelle looks, the big wide smile on Simon’s face. She remembers the hardships they went through, after he told her the truth. She thinks of Jace; she told him, and he still wants her. He’s not trying to push her away for her own good. But that will make it all the more harder to leave him. She tries to keep her tears at bay, but there’s really no stopping them.

She picks up her phone. The time reads 3:01AM, but she knows Simon is somewhere on the west coast, so she calls him.

“Hello?” He sounds confused and a little concerned.

“Simon,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “It’s Clary.”

“Oh—isn’t it late, by you? You should be asleep. Are you dying?” He adds, teasing.

“Just about,” she says shakily and he must hear the bleakness in her voice because he sobers up immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-I fucked up, Si.”

“Never,” he jokes lightly, but she can still hear the concern in his voice. “How?”

“I’ve... sort of been seeing someone. Everything has been great, but—”

His voice hardens. “Has he hurt you?”

“No,” she laughs a little, because of his protectiveness. “I’m actually—I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“Good,” he says with a smile, “that’s—that’s really good to hear, Clary. So what’s the problem?”

“His name is Jace Herondale-Lightwood,” she whispers.

Silence, and then “Wh-what?” Simon stutters.

Clary can hear his heart breaking all over again and she hates this, but she can’t keep this from him. “Maryse Lightwood adopted him when he was ten.” She swallows. “And he knows. Everything.”

“You... you told him?” He asks, disbelieving.

“Your—uh, Isabelle told him about you. When he was younger and she was still alive. She—she apparently talked about you a lot, Simon,” she laughs a little, despite her closed up throat. “But I... I know that you’re still hurting. And if you want me to break it off, I will.”

Simon goes quiet. So quiet, Clary can hear the blood rushing in her ears, the clock down the hall go _tick_ _tick tick_. “No,” he says finally. “No, I—” he clears his throat. “Can I meet him?”

Her brows furrow and she wipes her cheeks. “Y-yeah, Si. You can, if you really want to.”

“I do. Um—where are you living these days? I can fly in next week?”

She can feel her face splitting into a grin. “Sure. We’re—I’m in New York.”

“Cool,” Simon says, and she can hear his giddiness. She knows the feeling; it feels kind of crazy to see him before ten years is up. She can feel her adrenaline kick up, for breaking her own rule. “I’ll see you next week.”

“See you.”

“Clary?” Jace says, voice a little gruff from sleep, from the doorway. His hair is adorably disheveled and he’s only wearing boxer briefs.

Clary tries not to let it show how much his nakedness affect her, but fails miserably when she makes a weird sort of sigh in the back of her throat. He smirks a little. “How much did you hear?”

He smiles a little helplessly. “All of it.”

“Um,” Clary flushes. “It was the truth. All of it. I meant it when I said I would break what we have if it became a problem. Simon is my best friend,” she says helplessly.

He flops down next to her. He presses a kiss to her hair. “I know,” he says quietly and Clary feels so lucky to have someone like Jace in her life right now. She’s going to remember every moment they have together.

His lips pull up into a smirk. “But I also heard you say how happy you are.”

“I am,” she says truthfully.

“The happiest,” he says, a little smug. “I want to make you even happier than the happiest.”

An eyebrow raises. “Oh yeah? How?”

He grins wolfishly and pushes her down onto the floor. He crawls on top of her and kisses her senseless.

_he doesn’t look anything like her btw_ Clary texts Simon the following week. _you can’t marry him he’s mine_

_shut up_ , he replies.

She waits for him at baggage claim, having left Jace in the car outside. She wants this to be as un-explosive as possible. How explosive would it have been if she’d brought Jace inside? She doesn’t know, but she’s not willing to risk it right now.

When she sees him, she has to smile. His hair is mussed, glasses askew on his nose. His shirt, barely ironed, says “TO QUOTE HAMLET ACT III, SCENE III LINE 87, ‘NO.’” Clary hugs him tightly. “How are you?”

He squeezes back. “Good. Look,” he pulls back and flexes an arm. “I’ve been working out.”

Clary giggles, squeezes his bicep. “I can see that, Mr. Muscle Man.”

Simon’s grin is contagious. “So, where’s my future brother-in-law?”

Her face goes tomato. “In the car.” She takes his bag. “Follow me.”

“How chivalrous.”

She rolls the suitcase into the backs of his knees.

Back at their apartment, Clary pours them all some tea. It takes a little longer than usual because Kylo Ren hops up on the counter and takes a lick of hers. After shooing her away, Clary has to make another. She makes her way to the dining room, where Jace and Simon sit, waiting. Kylo Ren rests in Jace’s lap. She hisses when she sees Clary; Clary hisses back.

Jace is shuffling through some old photos of Isabelle, one’s he’s never seen before. “What else do you want to know about her?” he asks Simon.

Simon shifts in his chair. “Well—uh, there’s really no way to put this nicely, but. Do you know how she was like? After me?”

A quick flash of teeth. “Well, considering I wasn’t born then—not exactly. But I do know she was never truly happy. Sorry,” he winces. “Probably not what you want to hear, but—”

“No it is,” Simon says quickly. “It’s exactly what I want to hear.”

Jace blinks. “Oh. Good.”

“I just wanted to know if she was suffering just like me. That it wasn’t easy for her to move on.”

Jace stares at him, scrutinizing. “No, it never was.” He clears his throat. “But she was a good woman. A good mother, a good aunt. Well—great-foster-aunt, in my case. I think she was the best person I knew, and I didn’t know her for very long. You were lucky to have her, Simon. And she was lucky to have you.”

Simon nods, a few times. His jaw clenches, and he blinks rapidly, like he’s keeping the tears at bay.

He stays the remainder of the week. He and Jace don’t speak much, but Clary knows Simon has a newfound respect for Jace. It’s enough. It has to be.

She’s 143 when he gets down on one knee and asks to spend the rest of his life with her.

She swallows the lump in her throat. “These first hundred years... are like a drop in the ocean...” she hesitates. “My—my first husband never knew about me, and he didn't have a choice. I don't want to go through that again. I don't want to fall in love again for twenty years.” She can feel him deflate and she hates it. She hates every second of this. “Twenty years is... _gone_ in the blink of an eye. I'm looking for someone to love forever. Most people, when they say forever, they don't really mean forever. But I do. It’s... I _am_ forever. I'm in love with you, Jace. And I want forever with you. But there would be no forever.”

He shakes his head, smiling, as if he already knew she would say that. “Whatever you want, Clary. I’ll do whatever you want.”

They get married only a few months after the proposal and the wedding is small. His parents never approved of Clary, but his brothers show up and Magnus and Simon too (Magnus won’t admit it, but he is certainly charmed by Alec). Tessa and Jem don’t. They’re back in hiding, with no explanation, after Clary told them she was marrying a Herondale. Magnus tells them it’s not their fault, tells them what Herondale means to the both of them. A lost life partner and brother, and Clary’s heart hurts greatly—even on her wedding day. Jace does everything he can to make up for it that night.

“How did the universe come up with you?” Jace asks quietly, kissing her softly.

She laughs, a little watery. “I’m still asking myself that same question.”

Their kisses don’t get any rougher than this. They take their time, slowly and gently. They don’t rip their clothes off, instead moving languidly, drinking each other in. And when it’s all over, she cries a little more, tears mingling in with sweat.

“I wish I was different. I wish I lived in your time. I’m so sick of this,” she gasps, “of losing people. I wish... I-I wish—”

Jace slants his mouth over hers. “I know,” he whispers, his own throat tightening. “I know.”

And Clary feels different after that day.  Lighter, somehow. And that’s how it is for the rest of their lives together. They live in complete erlebnisse. There are good times, and even worse times. Like when she finds out Jace wants kids and she can never give that to him (“But I want _you_ more,” he tells her. They leave it at that). The day they move in together; they move into her apartment, because she has too much stuff to pack up. Fights that last for days, restless nights spent on the couch, Jace goes without shaving for a whole week before they finally make up. Their childish quips at each other, trying to hold in the giggles. Forehead kisses, hands threaded in one another’s hair. Jace’s absence when he goes away for a week to visit his family; Clary draws him over and over because she can’t get him out of her head. The day Hedwig dies, and Jace holds her all night (this is the fifth personal loss). And her hair still doesn’t gray, not with Jace’s. Not on his fiftieth birthday. Not when he’s seventy-four and suffers a heart attack, or again at seventy-eight. Not when he’s on his deathbed and she cries herself to sleep every night.

But she is forced to believe that the world gets better. Because if it doesn’t, why was she cursed to live it longer than anyone else? What did she do to deserve that? 

She realizes that saying goodbye to him is like reading the final page of an incredible book. And when she finally reaches the last chapter, she begins to notice just how beautiful and perfect the plot has always been. She appreciates the joy and even the pain as she reaches the final moments of her journey. Although the last sentence is the most difficult to read, she has to remember that another great book awaits. Eventually she’ll have to move on, she knows. Or maybe she will return to this one. But she knows, deep down in her heart, that this particular book is her all time favorite one.

* * *

_I’ll wait, so show me why you’re strong_

_Ignore everybody else_

_We’re alone now_

_We’re alone now_

_We’re alone now_

_I’ll wait_

* * *

 

It is the year 3019 and the sky is falling.

Clarissa Morgenstern, Magnus Bane, Tessa Grey, James Carstairs, and Simon Lewis sit atop of Burj Khalifa in Dubai and watch the world burn.

“Do you think we can die?” Simon breaks the silence between them.

Clary gives each of them a long look. Magnus’s long, weary face and the callouses of his clasped hands. Tessa’s long bony fingers grasping Jem’s; they’re both shaking. And Simon, her closest friend, bags under his eyes and thin cheekbones no doubt matching her own. She wonders about all the others like them, scattered around the world without permanent lives, much like them. And she feels sad for them. And she feels a homesickness for a home she can never return to, for a home she never had. And she is so, so tired. They have all fought too many wars and have lost too many people. They deserve a break, she thinks.

Her lips turn up in a sad smile. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Simon Lewis?”

* * *

_Suddenly I’m hip_

_Is this the darkness of the dawn_

_And your friends are gone_

_And your friends won’t come_

_So show me where you fit_

_So show me where you fit_

_...._

_...._

_...._

_...._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> ur welcome
> 
> i wrote most of this listening to 2009/2010 Justin Bieber. idk i was just able to write a lot of this in one sitting listening to baby bieber. IDK MAN. but if the ending of clace felt rushed that’s because it WAS i’m sorry i just really wanted this finished bc i’ve been working on it since december lmao
> 
> and if i spoiled a bit of The Force Awakens for anybody, i’m really sorry? but in my defense, it’s been out for like two months so no i’m not sorry
> 
> and ok that favorite book thing? that was a poem i read somewhere, it went something along the lines of that BUT I CAN’T REMEMBER WHERE IT’S FROM IM MAD
> 
> anyway thanks for joining me on this sinful ride full of FEELINGS im going to go lie down for the next 84 years u can join me if u want


End file.
